


Tells Me "Worship in the Bedroom"

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Bruce Wayne's poor life choices, M/M, Starring - Freeform, and way more feelings than were originally intended, post-5x03, the Church of Jeremiah Valeska
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: An encounter in a church, after Bruce gets left behind.Follows on from the end of 5x03 'Penguin, Our Hero'.





	Tells Me "Worship in the Bedroom"

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am still alive, and thrilled I managed to get this out before the next ep (which will no doubt contradict it majorly)
> 
> This started out as a semi-porny aftermath fic for 5x03 (I mean he's handcuffed to a grate in the middle of one of Jeremiah's hideouts, in the middle of his, pardon the pun, god damn church. I mean, come on) but then, well, *Roza Diaz voice* "He just has so many emotions." So here's 7000ish words of something. Enjoy.

Bruce is thankful that he has taken to carrying around pins that can be used in the picking of locks, and more so that he had remembered to bring them with him. It means he’s not going to have to dislocate his thumb to get out of the handcuffs. Unfortunately, while he knows that it won't take him long to get himself free, there's no doubt that Selina is already gone, with Ecco even further ahead.

He considers calling out again anyway, in the futile hope that she might come back. 

He doesn’t, and she doesn’t, and ultimately it isn’t so much the getting loose that is the issue, although he is loath to stay in this building any longer than he has to, the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that has become an almost a constant companion over the last few months having exploded into a shrieking warning siren the second he stepped through the doors.

(he knows fully well what the feeling is, or rather, what is causing it, but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to acknowledge it quite yet)

The issue is that Selina left him here in the first place. 

Rather than allow him to help her, rather than stick to the plan that they had agreed upon when they set out, Selina had handcuffed him to a gated door in the middle of Jeremiah’s hideout, threatened him, and then left, chasing after her quarry with a profusely bleeding leg.

Bruce has no doubt that if she catches Ecco, injured as she may be, she’ll kill her. Just like she’ll kill Jeremiah should she get the chance. Just like she’s bound to try and kill Oswald Cobblepot once she finds out what happened to Tabitha Galavan. Just like, Bruce is coming to understand with a growing sense of dread, she’ll kill anyone who gets in between her and the ones she is after.

If they don’t kill her first, that is.

And that’s what Bruce should be worried about. He should be worried that Selina is in over her head, that she’s going to make a mistake and it’s going to cost her her life. And he is worried. He’s worried that he’s going to lose her. He’s worried that something is going to happen that he won’t be able to fix, no matter what he does or who he turns to.

But if he’s being honest with himself, it’s more than that. It has nothing to do with exactly whose head she’s after (nothing,  _nothing_ ), but rather, what it means.

Ivy’s words have been stewing in the back of his mind, a weight, a distraction that has been slowly twisting itself into something he cannot just brush away. At first, he had been too shocked at the idea that his intervention may have killed Selina, and then, too relieved that she had survived, to dwell on the warning Ivy had given.

Selina was alive, that’s all that mattered.

But now, it’s a little harder to ignore.

The anger in and of itself is not surprising. Selina has never been one to hold back, has always let her opinions, her irritation, her hatred, be known, regardless of the target. The blame she had placed on Bruce for her injuries had been warranted – as much as it had hurt, she had been right, it was Bruce’s fault - but today had been different. Jokes and kisses and soft smiles had shifted to fury and ferocity and a bloodlust that had scared him, even as they shifted back.

‘The darker angels of our nature unlocked and set free,” is what Ivy had said.

He knows that Selina has killed before. He was there for at least one, and who knows how many others there have been. Bruce is conscious of the fact that she had hardly been walking the straight and narrow while working with Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan, even though they had never actually talked about it. After the one time he had openly expressed his distaste at her choice of friends, he hadn’t brought it up again, and she, affronted at his refusal to assist her in getting into Barbara Kean’s good book, hadn’t offered. On the odd occasion where their paths had crossed during those months, they had skirted around the issue, and after Ra’s, the last thing Bruce had wanted to do was contemplate metaphorically bloody hands, his own or any others.

But Bruce isn’t sure what feels worse; the idea that Selina may actively, purposefully, choose to do something she won’t be able to take back, regardless of how much Bruce may plead with her, or the idea that taking a life might not ruin Selina the way it had ruined him.

(It’s been more than two months since the bridges blew, two months since Barbara Kean wrapped his hands around the dagger and drove it into Ra’s al Ghul’s stomach. He does not always dream of Ra’s - Bruce has more than enough in his life to fuel an eternity of nightmares - but his threats, his promises, his  _affection_ , expressed so pleasantly with so sharp an edge, and the way his flesh had felt, parting under the blade, makes more than its fair share of appearances. It may not have been his choice, but it was his hands all the same, and Bruce cannot allow himself to forget it.)

Bruce knows Selina is hurting, and a part of him even understands why she needs this. Why she needs to see Jeremiah’s blood spilt and why she needs to be the one to spill it.

(The gun had felt heavy in his hand. There had been a dead weight in his stomach and his eyes had burnt as they stared across at the man who had taken his world from him.)

She is angry and in pain and so sure that she is doing only what is necessary, but Bruce knows he won’t be able to stand on the sidelines and do nothing. Perhaps it is naivety, for expecting some manner of kindness, or compassion from the world, or selfishness, for knowing that he may not be able to handle losing a friend, losing someone he loves, to that darkness.

(not again)

But either way, he knows he cannot let it happen. Even if it makes her hate him.

The click of the handcuffs as they spring open seems loud to him. He has tried keeping his ears pricked for the sound of anyone approaching, wary of being caught at a disadvantage, but it is an old building, and the room he’s in is made to distort sound, so he doesn’t fully trust his senses. For the moment however, all seems clear.

Bruce leaves the cuffs dangling from the gate, pulling off his glove as he heads for the door. He doubts she did it on purpose, but Selina had closed the metal a little too tight around his wrist, and the twisting he had to do to reach the lock means that despite the glove, he has ended up with a red mark around his wrist. He rubs at it, before tucking the glove into his pocket and picking up the flashlight on his way past from where he had dropped it in his rush to pull Selina and Ecco apart.

He carefully makes his way back through the room of bodies, holding an arm against his nose in an attempt to block out the smell. He pauses for a moment, wishing that there was something he could do besides leave them to rot. He will not be able to, in good conscience, ask Jim to devote any resources to recovering the bodies. They don’t have the time, weapons or man-power to spare, especially this deep into the Dark Zone, but whatever it was that drove these people to seek shelter under Jeremiah’s wing, whether it was fear or sickness or just plain desperation, in Bruce’s mind they deserve better than being left here, forgotten.

But there’s nothing he can do now without drawing unwanted attention to himself. The few men he had spotted on his way through the building had already be taken care of, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more somewhere, or that reinforcements wouldn’t be called in.

Or that something else might be notified of Bruce’s presence here.

Either way, Bruce knew the sooner he got out, the better.

He doesn’t relish having to make his way back to Haven through the Dark Zone on foot, alone. While the area immediately around the church had appeared strangely deserted, as if those who had built their shelters in this part of the city were purposefully keeping their distance – circling the area, but never coming too close, predators keeping their distance from an even bigger threat – there were still far too many miles between himself and the compound, and god knows what else lurked out there in the dark.

Bruce figures he might have better luck sticking to the rooftops. As long as he can get up high, he should be able to pick his way back across the city without too much trouble. With Selina, and their one solid lead, having fled into the night, the best place for Bruce is back at Haven, where he can at least work on helping the ever-increasing number of refugees looking for safety. The water filtration system may be up and running, but there’s still so much more he could be doing to help.

And if nothing else, Jim may be able to provide some clarity on what he should do next.

Making his way down the stairs, Bruce flinches as the boards creak under his feet. The entry hall, with its pews and altar, alcoves transformed into niched shrines dedicated to this new, accursed deity, is wreathed in shadow. The light from the candles create shifting patterns across the walls and pillars, and the noise of his feet as he reaches the bottom step echoes back at him. Despite the dark, Bruce lets out the breath he has been holding since he got himself free, the tension in his body that had just kept ratcheting up with every step he took easing ever so slightly. He doesn’t relax, he still has half a city to cross before he’s reached anything close to safety, but he’s in no mood for a fight, and it’s a relief not to have been ambushed on the way out.

A part of him still just wants to go home. He’s tired in a way he doesn’t think he has ever felt before. He’s scared and afraid that it’s all becoming too much, that he won’t be able to handle it, that he’s going to  _snap_ , and deep down all he wants is to crawl into bed and sleep for as long has he is allowed. But his home, his bed, the place where his parents’ ghosts still linger, is barred from him, and there are too many people who need him to keep going. He can’t leave Jim and Alfred and Harvey and Lucius to shoulder this alone.

Still, it’s been days since he’s had a proper night’s sleep, and it’s starting to cost him. He should have been able to capture Ecco, and Selina should not have been able to get the drop on him, even if he hadn’t thought he needed to be on his guard around her to begin with. The fatigue is also what Bruce will later blame for why it takes him far too long to notice that the front doors are open, and there is someone standing in the entryway.

Bruce doesn’t jump, and there’s nothing as clichéd as a flash of perfectly timed lightning to light up Jeremiah’s silhouette in the dark, but he freezes all the same, back pressed up against the banister.

“I heard that you have been looking for me.”

Bruce isn’t actually in anyway surprised. Not in the slightest. Because of course,  _of course,_ Jeremiah would appear now, as if he hasn’t been one step ahead, or one step behind him, lurking on the edge of Bruce’s senses, but still just out of reach for months now, no matter how much, how far, how hard Bruce grasped. As if Bruce hadn’t spent the day fighting his way into the Dark Zone, only to be abandoned by his partner.

As if Bruce wasn’t just in the process of  _leaving_.

Bruce really shouldn’t complain. Finding Jeremiah was what he wanted after all. But there’s just something hysterically and awfully fitting that after all this work, Jeremiah should just come to him.

Bruce rolls his shoulders back, breathes out slowly, and tries to act like his heart isn’t about to beat out of his chest.

“How did you know-”

“Where to find you? Not that I’m not generally aware of your location at most, if not all times, but in this case…”

His dreams of Jeremiah are always changing. There are ones with bombs, and gunshots, splattered blood giving way to deathly white. Gloved hands that move from squeezing at his shoulder up to his neck, down to his hips, lower. There are others with red hair and glasses, comfortable companionship and furtive looks that Bruce pretends not to notice.

Those ones are the worst.

The Jeremiah standing in front of him is far more material, his presence in the room something tangible that Bruce can feel. The bruises Alfred gave him have long since healed. His skin is just as white, his mouth just as red as Bruce remembers, with a shirt now to match. He’s wearing a black suit this time, with purple gloves, rather than the red he had been wearing in the abandoned high-rise. Bruce takes it all in with manufactured detachment, pushing anything else to the side. Jeremiah seems in a good mood, which contrarily, makes Bruce feel rather unsafe.

Jeremiah is also looking back at him, staring at Bruce, eyes taking in everything, from his face, to the tension in his posture, to the grapple claw still strapped to his thigh, to his bare hand and the graze poking out from beneath his cuff.

(He’s always looking at Bruce. He hadn’t even looked at Selina as he shot her. Only at him. Only ever at him.)

“Ecco called me the moment she noticed the two of you,” Jeremiah continues, kicking aside a piece of fallen plaster with his foot as he walks forward. Bruce tenses, shifting his weight between his feet as his eyes flick towards the door. He considers making a run for it; Jeremiah has a few years and a couple of inches on him, but Bruce has enough training and strength that Jeremiah on his own would be hard pressed to keep Bruce here. 

But Bruce doesn’t move. He has no idea what kind of weapons Jeremiah might have on him, or what might be waiting outside the church doors. More importantly, that Jeremiah is here, in front of him, means he’s not out there, causing god knows what harm to the city and those who remain. 

He’s not where Selina is.

“If it had just been the little bitch, then I probably would have let Ecco handle it. God knows she’s getting a kick out of all this,” Jeremiah waves a hand around the room, and gestures to what Bruce sees from the corner of his eye are more than one set of bloody footprints, leading from the stairs towards the door. “She deserves her fun after all,” Jeremiah adds, stepping into Bruce’s space.

“But when she mentioned that you were here too,” He brushes his fingers against Bruce’s shoulder as he circles around behind him. “How could I not come? And lucky for me, the kitty-cat took off, leaving you here all  _alone_.”

He breathes the last word into Bruce’s ear, and it takes everything Bruce has to lock down the shiver it sends up his spine. The room is lit only by candles, but Bruce is almost hyperaware of Jeremiah, conscious of every shift, every movement, every breath from the other man. A hand reaches around, and Bruce snatches hold of it before it can touch him. He squeezes at the thin wrist under the purple glove, but Jeremiah doesn’t flinch or pull back, just sneaks his other arm to wrap around Bruce’s waist.

“And it has actually been surprisingly difficult to get you alone.”

He’s warm, pressed up against Bruce’s back, and the contact feels far nicer than Bruce thinks he should be comfortable with.

“You’re always tucked away in Gordon’s little fortress,” Jeremiah drops his chin down onto his shoulder, and Bruce can feel the puff of his breath on his neck when he tilts his head to look at him. There’s something about the way he says Jim’s name, and it reminds Bruce of the little frown Jeremiah always got whenever Bruce would bring up Jim, or Tommy, and, most often, Selina, as they worked.

“You are more than welcome to stop by, if you want to see me so badly” he says, forced casually.

Jeremiah hums, but it’s an amused sound more than anything.

“Hmmm, I’d rather not. Far too crowded. Plus, it worked out in the end didn’t it? Here you are.

Bruce still has hold of Jeremiah’s wrist, so he roughly squeezes it again, but the sound Jeremiah makes doesn’t exactly sound pained. Bruce goes to pull at the arm around his waist when Jeremiah straightens up and takes a step back, pulling Bruce with him.

“Oh, but I have been getting your messengers,” He says as they move.

It takes Bruce a moment to parse what he means. The nights where Jim doesn’t need him, or when sitting at Selina’s bedside becomes too much, he goes out into the city, venturing on occasion into the neighboring territories. The goal is helping wherever he can, getting the civilians into the GCPD controlled area and intervening in turf wars. Inevitably though, he asks about Jeremiah. Today had been the first real, solid lead on his whereabouts he’s gotten since the bridges went down, but all the same, Bruce has sent each of them away with the message that he was on the hunt.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruce says, planting his feet to prevent Jeremiah from pulling him any further across the room.

Jeremiah tuts.

“No need to lie Bruce. They all found their way to me eventually, a little worse for wear on occasion, but always clear on who had sent them, even if they didn’t have a name.” He pauses, tugging his hands from Bruce’s loosened grip and resting them on his hips. “And always so afraid. Of the both of us. I have been rather busy the past few months, lots of important things that needed doing, but I hate that I’ve so often missed it.” Bruce opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Jeremiah is leaning back down and pulling at Bruce’s earlobe with his teeth. This time, Bruce can’t stop the shiver. 

“I know how beautiful you are when you’re angry.”

Even has he shudders at the touch, at the words, content aside, so genuinely reverently whispered in his year, he wants to claw at Jeremiah’s face, break his nose, touch him, ask him “Why?”

Scream “How could you do this to me?”

He twists around until they are facing and fists his hands in the lapels of Jeremiah’s jacket. Jeremiah doesn’t stop him, only repositions his hands back on Bruce’s hips.

“Fine,” Bruce says, yanking him in. “I was looking for you. You know why? Because you need to be stopped. After what you’ve done, what you’re  _still_  doing? Someone has to stop you.”

“And that someone has to be you, yes? No one else could, is that it? Or rather,” Jeremiah smiles. “No one else should.”

‘What?” Bruce hisses.

‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me. That’s the way I prefer it too. Just the two of us, you and me. No one else matters.”

Bruce shakes his head.

“No, that’s not what it’s about.”

“Then why not let Miss Kyle have at it then? Look away, be blind, and let her do what she’s so desperate to do? I assume that’s why she left you here? Because you wouldn’t let her kill Ecco? Kill me?”

Bruce thinks back to the diner. To Jerome.

(“No one deserves that.”)

Jeremiah leans in, whispering into Bruce’s ear. “You wouldn’t even have to get your hands dirty. It wouldn’t be your hands around my neck. Your hands pushing the blade into my body, feeling it give way for you. Your finger on the trigger.”

“No,” Bruce chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s not- I don’t want-”

Because he has thought about it. Thought about those exact things, more than once. And it’s made him feel sick to his stomach every time.

Jeremiah pulls back.

“Shh,” he says gently. “We both know why you can’t, even if you won’t admit it.” His hands drift up to Bruce’s neck, thumb brushing across his Adam's apple as Bruce’s arms drop to his sides. “It’s okay, Bruce. You don’t have to say it.”

Bruce opens his eyes when Jeremiah’s hands move to the collar of his jacket. He pauses for a moment, before pulling at the tab of his zipper. Bruce lets him unzip his jacket and push it open, feeling somewhat disconnected from his body, and oddly curious about how far Jeremiah is planning to take this. His hands are warm as they slide up his torso, long fingers drumming an idle beat as they move. Jeremiah rests a hand against his chest, right over his heart, and Bruce pictures the hand pushing, clawing, reaching into his chest to rip it out.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’s done so.

(But god, the image shouldn’t make Bruce so lightheaded. At least, not in the way it does.)

“It really is good to see you Bruce, you have no idea. It’s been so hard, being so close, but not being able to...” Jeremiah trails off, eyes darting between his hand and Bruce’s mouth. He leans in, and Bruce can see it coming, but does nothing to stop it. He does nothing to stop Jeremiah’s mouth when it comes down on his. He does the opposite in fact. He tilts his head into the kiss and lifts his arms to wrap them around Jeremiah’s neck, sinking his hands into his hair.

Jeremiah wraps an answering arm around his shoulders while the other hand moves lower to grip his ass. Bruce gasps into Jeremiah’s mouth when the hand squeezes, and Jeremiah uses his grip to pull their hips flush. He can feel the line of Jeremiah’s cock against his thigh, and it’s clear he’s at least half-hard.

Jeremiah slips his tongue into his mouth, and it’s hot and dreadfully, awfully perfect. He pulls at the hair in his hands, and Jeremiah responds by rolling his hips. The friction against his own cock feels so good that Bruce has to break the kiss to let out moan.

Jeremiah pants a little when Bruce pulls away, but he’s quick to push him back. Bruce stumbles into something, the harsh edge of what, when he looks over his shoulder, turns out to be an altar of sorts, covered by a black embroidered cloth, digging into his lower back.

Jeremiah doesn’t quite pick him up, but he pushes at him until Bruce finds himself seated on the edge, legs falling open as Jeremiah steps in between them.

Seated like this Bruce is looking down on Jeremiah. There are more candles here than there were near the stairs, and in the light Jeremiah’s eyes look fever-bright. He’s staring at Bruce, eyes hungry, drinking him in, borderline ravenous. His hands rest on Bruce’s knees, squeezing gently.

He’s never had anyone look at him the way Jeremiah looks at him. Jerome had come close, a shallow reflection found in the gazes of strangers in the clubs he and Tommy used to frequent, and the avarice in Theo Galavan’s eyes when he looked at Bruce had certainly been there, even with the different kind of hunger behind them, but it was nothing like this. Like he was everything Jeremiah ever wanted, the center of the universe. Like Jeremiah would gladly look at him and nothing else from now until the day he died.

No one’s ever  _seen_ him like Jeremiah has. Like he does.

And Bruce hates it.

 Jeremiah then squints at him a little and shifts his face into a concerned frown that Bruce knows to be at least seventy percent mocking.

“You look tired Bruce. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“What?”

“I said, tired. You look it.”

“That’s- My sleep patterns are none of your business.”

“I’m concerned, that’s all. Sleep deprivation can have all sorts of nasty long-term side effects, you know? And in the short term, well, things like reduced faculties and impaired judgement.” He drops the frown, grinning at him instead. “Have you been feeling moodier that usual Bruce?”

“Shut up. And if I am tired, whose fault is it anyway?” He shifts as Jeremiah’s hands move to tug his shirt out of his pants, and he hooks a heel around his knee to pull him closer. “Who blew up all the bridges? Who turned to city into a war zone? Who used-?”

He cuts himself off, swallowing down the little kernel of bitter hurt, and instead throws an arm over Jeremiah’s shoulder, digging his fingers in viciously, hard enough to almost certainly leave bruises.

Jeremiah laughs, accepting Bruce’s glare, and doesn’t even try to dislodge his hand.

“I’m just saying,” a brush of lips against his neck, the slightest hint of teeth scraping along his jaw. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“Would you shut up,” Bruce snarls, pulling at Jeremiah’s hair to drag their mouths back together. Letting Jeremiah talk just always makes things worse. “Just shut  _up_.”

Jeremiah moves with him, even while laughing into Bruce’s mouth. Bruce considers biting his lip until it bleeds, but before he can do so, Jeremiah is pushing at his shoulder, nudging him back until he’s laid out on top of the altar.

He cranes his neck to look back down at Jeremiah, who is in turn looking at Bruce. The hunger is back, mixed in with something that might be close to awe.

“You know what Bruce, if anything, I’m inclined to thank Miss Kyle the next time I see her.” Jeremiah leans over him, running a hand underneath his shirt, fingers stroking along his side. The concept of Selina and Jeremiah meeting again is almost enough to start setting off alarm bells, because no, he definitely doesn’t want them near each other, but the return of a mouth on his neck makes his eyes feel heavy, and the worry quickly fades away.

“After all, an offering such as this,” Bruce moans at the feel of nails dragging across his stomach. “Deserves to be acknowledged.”

“Selina has nothing to do with this. Leave her out of it,” Bruce grits out.

“Oh, she very much does.  _She_ was the one who left you here, chained to a wall in the heart of my house, my church, my temple.

“That’s not- What are you-?” Bruce sits up on his elbows and Jeremiah smiles down at him, eyes roving over his face with not a little fondness.

“She left you here with me. For me.” His hands move down to Bruce’s belt, not opening it, not yet, just waiting, for Bruce to say no, for Bruce to knock his hands away. For Bruce to come to his god damn senses and stop this.

Bruce doesn’t say a word.

Jeremiah takes that as the sign he was looking for and starts undoing his belt. He flicks open the button of his pants and pulls down the zipper, slipping a hand inside. At the touch, Bruce falls back down against the altar, biting his tongue hard because he’s not entirely sure what words or sounds might come out should he let it loose. He can’t recall when he started getting hard, but Jeremiah’s hand on his cock, even through his underwear, is getting him there quickly enough.

“She may not see it that way, perhaps. But that doesn’t change the truth.”

“What-” A particularly hard stroke has Bruce shuddering. “What truth is that?”

“That you’re mine.” He punctuates the statement by stretching over Bruce and kissing him again. Bruce finds himself responding, tilting his head into the kiss and rolling his hips to grind against the palm touching him. Jeremiah doesn’t try deepening the kiss any further, just pulls back, tugging at Bruce’ bottom lip with his teeth as he does so. 

“You’re mine, just as I am yours.” Jeremiah pulls his hand out of Bruce pants, and instead starts pulling at his waistband. “We were made for each other Bruce. You know that.”

As Jeremiah works to get his pants and underwear fully off, Bruce lays there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself to open his mouth and refute the claims. He doesn’t, he can’t, and at Jeremiah’s nudging, he lifts his hips enough to help get them down his legs and kicks off one boot as Jeremiah pulls at the other.

Bruce feels uncomfortably exposed, with only his shirt and jacket on, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should. The stone altar beneath him is solid, grounding, and, strangely, warm enough to keep the expected chill away.

Jeremiah’s hands are even warmer. They run up the back of his calves and over his knees as Jeremiah stands between Bruce’s legs, flush against the short end of the altar. When Bruce looks down, the bright hue of his gloves is a sharp contrast to the pale skin of his thighs. There’s a nasty bruise already forming on the outside of one thigh, the result of an unlucky kick from one of the Mutants that managed to land. Bruce hadn’t noticed it until now, but when Jeremiah presses on it, it feels good.

There are some nights he remembers from his post-Ra's, months long bender, and many more that he doesn’t. The point had been to forget, to drown himself, to feel only what he wanted to, and the faces, the hands, the bodies, the names, and the aches and bruises that came with them, have all blurred together into one drink and high fueled fog.

Still, he knows he’s never been touched like this.

Jeremiah w _ants_ him. Sweep away Gotham and the bombs and Ra’s’ prophesy, at its core, it’s really just as simple as that. He wants Bruce, completely, fully and utterly, however he can have him, whatever he has to do to get him, and Bruce honestly has no idea what to do with that knowledge. He knows his parents loved him more than anything, and he knows that Alfred is much the same. Jim loves him too, as does Selina, in her own complex way that she can never fully admit to out loud. And he loves them all back. Bruce knows what love looks like, what it feels like. At least, he thinks he does.

Because this? What Jeremiah is to him, what he does to him? How can this monstrous thing be called love? How can he call something so tainted by blood and anger and jealousy and death love?

He shouldn’t. He can’t.

 _But he won’t ever leave you_. 

It’s an insidious thought that Bruce can never seem to get out of his head, even after Selina, even after the bridges, because more than anything, Bruce wants that certainty. Because he’s tired of losing people. Because maybe Bruce had loved him. Maybe Bruce loved that brilliant young man who followed him into the lion’s den, who wanted to change the world with him, who wanted to make a difference, and maybe there is a part of him that still-

Bruce is shaken from his thoughts by the feeling of Jeremiah running his mouth up his thigh. His mouth, his tongue, are soft and wet, and it feels far, far too good. Jeremiah suddenly bites down hard on the unblemished skin of his inner thigh, and the sharp sting of pain goes straight to his cock, forcing out a chocked-off moan. He clutches at Jeremiah’s hair, not trying to pull him off, just grasping at something to ground himself.

“You’re struggling Bruce, and that’s okay.” Jeremiah says when he lets go. Bruce can’t tell if he broke the skin or not, but he can feel every beat of his heart in the way the bite throbs. “I understand how hard this is for you, and I want nothing more than to help. Truly. I meant what I said.  _Together_. We rise, together.”

“And is that what this is?” Bruce says, looking down at him and waving his other hand vaguely at the room before letting it flop back down. “The church, the candles, the  _windows_? That’s what you meant by that?”

“People want something to believe in, something to follow, to devote themselves to. They need it, desperately. So, who am I to deny them such a comfort?”

Bruce shakes his head.

“You’re not a god.”

“I never claimed to be. A prophet, if anything. Or even just a humble believer.”

Bruce can’t help but snort at that.

“Fine, maybe not humble. But never doubt Bruce, the strength of my belief. My resolve, my,” he swipes his tongue across Bruce’s hip. “hmm, conviction.”

“In what?”

“In us, of course. In  _you_.”

Jeremiah then opens his mouth and swallows his cock down almost to the root. Bruce swears, his right leg kicking out and almost catching him in the head. Jeremiah wraps an arm around the offending leg and pins it down, and Bruce is left to lay there gasping. Bruce swears again as Jeremiah begins bobbing his head up and down, the occasional light scraping of teeth along his cock like a string, pulling his hips into the air.

While his parents had their own beliefs, it’s been a while since Bruce considered himself to be anything close to actively religious (six years, give or take, but who’s counting). However, even he knows that there’s something particularly sacrilegious about having sex on an altar in the middle of a church.

Then again, this isn’t a real church.

Intent probably still counts for something though. And God isn’t the only one who’s likely to frown upon what was happening here.

“You can close your eyes if you want,” Jeremiah says when he pulls back, running his hands up and down Bruce’s thighs as he does so. “You can pretend it’s before, if that’s easier for you.” He pauses. “As long as you’re still thinking about me of course.”

Bruce wants to laugh as Jeremiah sinks his head back down. As if he could think about anyone else right now (as if he would want to). But Jeremiah might be onto something there, because if Bruce closes his eyes, he can let that tiny part of him that he keeps under constant lock and key take over. That part that he hates even as he clings to it. That part of himself that insists it was real. That despite the lie, despite all that came after,  _it was real._

He can pretend that they’re at the manor (not in bed, on the desk in the study maybe), or in Jeremiah’s bunker, and it’s just the two of them, no blood or betrayal or gunshots or dead twins between them.

It  _is_  easier. In the short term at least.

He can deal with this new heaping of guilt and self-loathing later, but in the moment, he can be selfish, and just let himself have this, however he can get it. He’s exhausted, wounded and tired in a way that seems to seep into his bones. Many of the cuts are far older than No Man’s Land, but these last eighty-something days have taken their toll.

On the other hand, closing his eyes would mean missing out on the sight of Jeremiah’s mouth wrapped around his cock. And Bruce finds that’s not something he wants to miss. 

Jeremiah currently has one hand wrapped around Bruce’s cock as he swirls his tongue around the head. His other hand moves between pinching and scrapping at the insides of Bruce’s thighs, and pressing gently, and then not so gently, at that spot just below his hole. His fingers will occasionally brush further back, not pushing, not pressing in, but signaling they could. Promising.

At one point, Jeremiah looks up at him, swollen, blood-red mouth wrapped around the tip of his cock, and the sight of it flips some switch in the back of Bruce’s brain.

The angle is off, but Bruce manages to get a leg up. He knows at least a dozen ways that, if he wanted to, he could use to get Jeremiah off him from this position alone. A kick to the head, the face, the throat. His thighs wrapped around Jeremiah’s neck until he’s choked into unconsciousness. A redirection of movement that would slam his head into the altar.

Bruce doesn’t try any of them.

Instead, he wraps his leg around Jeremiah’s shoulder and uses the leverage to pull him down at the same time as his hips jerk up. The move is far from gentle, and rougher than what Bruce might try with practically any other partner.  But the man between his legs isn’t any other partner. And besides, Jeremiah doesn’t seem to be complaining. If anything, Bruce swears he can feel his answering grin even as he chokes.

He feels the head of his cock brush against the back of Jeremiah’s throat, and it’s one of the best things he’s ever felt. The pressure around his cock, the warm, wet heat of it, the fact that Jeremiah is who he is, has Bruce bucking up again and again. He is deaf and blind to anything outside of this room, anything outside of his body. He grasps at anything he can get his hands on; the cloth and stone beneath him, Jeremiah’s hair, his own, the hands that seem to be all over him.

Jeremiah keeps moving his head up and down, pulling up to suck at the head of his cock when Bruce lets up the pressure, before sliding all the way back down until his nose is brushing against Bruce’s pelvis, and swallowing.

His hands run up and down Bruce’s stomach, scratching as they go. He tugs at Bruce’s balls and rolls them between his fingers as he licks at the vein running along his cock. It’s all too much, and it has Bruce biting down on his fist hard. 

The final straw is the finger Jeremiah slips back between his cheeks. The slightest bit of pressure, the barely there burn, the very promise of it is enough, and he only just gets the tip of his finger inside his hole before Bruce is coming. He arches off the altar, fighting against Jeremiah’s attempts to pin his hips down. He thinks he may be screaming.

Jeremiah keeps sucking at him until it starts to hurt, swallowing down Bruce’s release. Bruce can feel the pull along his hip and inner thigh as the leg he had hooked over Jeremiah’s shoulder falls wide. He can feel both legs trembling, but can’t bring himself to pull them in.

When Jeremiah finally pulls off, he licks lightly at Bruce’s cock as he does, seemingly attempting to clean off any come he didn’t get a chance to swallow. Once satisfied, he stands, wiping at his mouth. Through half-lidded eyes Bruce watches him arch his back, before rubbing at his throat and looking down at him. 

“You know,” Jeremiah says, voice horse. “I think  _this_  is the most beautiful you have ever looked.”

Given that Bruce is currently laid out on an altar with his legs spread obscenely, sweaty and dizzy and panting and very much fucked out, Bruce should probably be at least a little offended by the statement. Or at least embarrassed. Jeremiah looks entirely too smug and self-satisfied for Bruce’s liking, but his orgasm has drained away any anger he might have felt, leaving only a pleasant haze with a touch of something close to sadness, so he’ll take the compliment in the spirit it was no doubt intended. 

Instead of doing what he probably should have done to begin with, and what Jeremiah more than definitely deserves, Bruce fumbles for his jacket, and uses the grip to pull himself upwards. He doesn’t even have to lean forward to bring their mouths together. Jeremiah has already moved towards him, and he opens his mouth easily when Bruce swipes his tongue along his bottom lip.

He can taste himself in Jeremiah’s mouth, and it’s dirty and filthy and it makes Bruce’s cock twitch. The cloth that had covered the altar has half fallen off, trailing onto the floor, and the scrape of the stone on his ass shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but the same could be said for anything else that has happened tonight.

Before Bruce can start properly thinking about even the possibility of reciprocation, before his brain can get any further than just the idea of dropping to his knees and choking himself on what he guesses to be a sizeable cock, Jeremiah steps away. He straightens his jacket, and brushes at his pants to remove the dust that has been rubbed off on them. Bruce can’t help but look, and it’s clear that Jeremiah is very much still hard. The curve of his zipper and the length of his jacket do little to hide the bulge, but to Bruce’s mild confusion, he doesn’t appear to be interested in doing anything about it. Jeremiah catches him looking, but only raises an eyebrow. For some reason, Bruce is loath to break the silence, and actually has no idea what he might say even if he did, and so he just stares back at him. After a moment Jeremiah huffs out a breath.

“As much as I’m sure I would enjoy whatever it is that you’re thinking about doing,” he says, stepping back into Bruce’s space and touching his lips with his thumb. He drags a little at his bottom lip, and while Bruce doesn’t quite open his mouth, he doesn’t shut it against him either. He knows Jeremiah can feel the puff of his breath against his fingers, and this close he can see him swallow, and shake his head as if to clear it.

“I really do have to run.” To Bruce’s ears, Jeremiah sounds a little less certain than he did a moment ago, and he can’t help it when his mouth quirks up into the beginnings of a smile. He turns his head a little, and Jeremiah’s thumb brushes across his lips to the corner of his mouth.

“No,” Jeremiah says. “Lots of things to do, wayward accomplices to track down and all. But don’t worry, I’ll be waiting for you to come find me, when you’re ready. It’s your turn after all.”

Jeremiah taps Bruce on the mouth one more time.

“You’re it,” he says, before stepping back and ducking out through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still on [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) going down with the ship perhaps, but I'm always up for talking about Gotham, DC and Bruce Wayne in particular.


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